


Beneath these Bridges

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Established Relationship, M/M, sex in a public place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3232265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evening stroll along the Seine leads Javert and Valjean to a familiar place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath these Bridges

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss M (missm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/gifts).



> Inspired by last summer's walks along the Seine while talking about how that needs to be turned into fic. <3

Javert sighed with relief when at last they escaped the small alley and reached the river that meandered its way through the city here. In the narrow street, it had been uncomfortably hot; here, where the street followed the river's course, a gentle breeze cooled his face, and he allowed himself a small smile as he turned to look at Valjean. He wondered, still, that after nearly a lifetime, his mouth could learn to bend to such new shapes, could learn to soften, and mold itself to the lines of that beloved mouth, to the curve of Valjean's neck; even, with trepidation, to the deepest of the scars Valjean's back still bore along with all the other weight this man carried.

Valjean returned his smile. There was warmth in his eyes, and a light sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, both from the exertion of the walk in the heat, as well as the wine they had shared in a small wine-shop, as two friends might. Javert tensed at the sudden yearning to reach out and press his fingers to his brow, to wipe away the gleam of sweat. These things were becoming instinctual now, and for a man who had always prided himself on his control, Javert was equally surprised and amused by how little control he now had in such things. 

Perhaps it was simply that he had been starved all his life without knowing it. Now that he knew touch, it was hard to control the need for it. How strange to go without it for so long, only to find this thing now, and realize that he was no better than a besotted schoolboy.

There were church bells ringing somewhere in the distance. Notre-Dame, Javert thought, instinctively searching for the familiar towers above the roofs. How often had he walked along the river in the evenings or at night, ever watchful, ever vigilant, eager for that one pleasure his life had held up until that point, which was the moment when his hands would clamp around the suspect's arm, when a strange, fierce delight would fill him, and he would know that satisfaction of a dog finishing a chase.

Everything was familiar, and yet, now the setting sun illuminated the river with a tender light, and he felt a delight he had not known before. How strange all of this still was: to walk and watch with no purpose but contentment! To know that the man walking by his side was friend, and more than friend – to him, who had never even known friendship and now by an overly merciful God was granted love! And this friend walked by his side, in broad daylight as well as darkness, and shared his enjoyment, his contentment! 

They did not talk as they walked slowly for a while. The wine was heavy and warm in Javert's stomach, and he ached to take Valjean's hand and pull him close, to express this strange feeling within him that another man might have dared to call joy with kisses, rather than the paltry things his tongue came up with when he tried to form words.

Later, he promised himself, breathing deeply. Later, when they had returned to the Rue Plumet, when they would open the windows wide and allow the scents and the sounds of the nightly garden to surround them as they touched in the sanctity of Valjean's bedroom. That was a different and nearly magical place, a garden overgrown and wild, filled by green and growth and love. But here, in the city, they were but two gentlemen walking side by side, two friends going for a walk by the river after they had shared wine and company. Javert, who had always seen himself set apart from that society he was content to watch over, now felt a strange delight at the thought that here, he fit in; here, with this man, his company was enough.

His steps had slowed a little, and now, he realized with a sudden jolt, they were walking along the Quai de la Mégisserie – now they walked in the footsteps of a man he wished he could claim he no longer knew.

For a moment, he was not certain what to do. To do nothing, perhaps; to pretend there was no significance to the spot? But he had never been able to lie, and Valjean would certainly see the change in him. To ask Valjean to take a different route? They could retrace their steps to the Pont Neuf and cross the river there; it was a warm night, and they had the pleasure of each other's company; it would do no harm to walk a little more.

But was he prepared for Valjean's eyes to lose their warmth, and to look at him with the uncertainty of the old concern once more? Certainly they had left that behind by now. Certainly a man who could take that beloved face firmly in his hands and devote himself to the art of learning how to kiss this bewildering, frustrating man with his lips that should not be so warm and right against his own – certainly a man who could learn to do such a thing could walk past the spot where a different man once thought to abandon all this joy which had always been his but for the asking.

With another jolt, he realized that they had stopped. He knew the place intimately well. Even now, a touch of the old horror curled in his heart, like a distant echo of that overwhelming despair that had tempted him to abandon life and God, and the love he did not yet know he could feel and return to this man who deserved all love. How strange it was to stand in this place, to shudder with the full weight of both the sudden awareness that here, his world had turned upside down, and the horror of the wrongness of that past decision! To imagine that there had been no Valjean to lead him away from that precipice...

Valjean's warm hand clasped his own; at the same moment, Javert turned towards him.

“Forgive me,” Javert said. His voice shook a little. “I caused you much grief, at a time when you had so many burdens of your own to bear. I was very selfish.”

He looked down at where his hand was securely enfolded in Valjean's worn hand. The warmth and the strength of him were so different to what he had expected. Valjean's inexperience had equaled his own, but when they had touched, there had never been place for doubt. 

“You were lost,” Valjean said gently. “I know how that is. And you only thought to do harm to yourself. Knowing that hurt me, but it would have hurt more not to have found you here.”

Javert looked down at the rapids rushing past. Even on this warm summer evening it made him shudder to contemplate the water's cold, and the strength of the current. It had seemed just then; now he could not bear to think of sleeping eternally in that cold, wet embrace instead of tasting hot skin and the desperate, joyful struggle of two worn bodies learning desire at last with each other, or the exhausted peace of dreaming through the night pressed to the warm body of the man who cradled his heart in such careful hands.

“I would have robbed both of us,” he said. “As I would have robbed God. I am not proud of many things, Jean Valjean, but I am proud that I have learned how to make you smile. I pray that when the day of Judgment arrives, each and every of your smiles will be placed into the scale, and that it will be enough to go to where you are.”

“There, you have even learned how to be charming. Did Pontmercy try to teach you?” Valjean's words were spoken in jest, but his eyes were serious, and he touched Javert's cheek briefly with his other hand, his eyes lingering on his lips for a moment so that Javert could almost taste the kiss they both craved.

How strange it was to grow so old, and at last grow so used to tasting paradise on the lips of this man. The thought of Hell could hold no power over him when he allowed the awareness of Valjean's goodness to wash over him. It was a feeling not unlike the sun: a gentle warmth that warmed every limb and brought peace to the turmoil that had once raged in his heart.

Javert looked around, heat rising in his face at the thought of what he desired to do. It was late; they were alone. The bent figure of an old man vanished around a corner. Had there been a movement in the window of the small shop over there?

Javert felt his heart thud in his chest as he turned back to face Valjean and allowed his eyes to linger on that mouth he desired to kiss. Was it not strange how much could be said without words, just by the touch of lips?

Daring, he raised his hand, his fingers still curled around Valjean's. Heat flushed his cheeks as he pressed his mouth to the worn knuckles, breathed the kiss he dared not press to lips to the beloved fingers instead. For the time of a heartbeat, they stood there at the river, the wind playing with their hair as they looked at each other. Then, with a soft sigh, Javert released Valjean's hand, his lips still remembering the roughness of his fingers even after they both averted their faces with something that might have seemed like shyness to an observer, before they turned, wordless and still flushed, to continue their walk along the river.

He dared not look at Valjean. They walked quickly now, and with every step he could hear the way his heartbeat echoed in his ears, and feel the way his cheeks burned with heat. He could not speak; even breathing seemed a dangerous act all of a sudden, when the warm summer air around them was so fraught with tension that he feared that with every exhaled breath, a tell-tale sound might escape, or even a plea.

Without speaking, without looking at each other to acknowledge the sudden, shared tension, they took the first stair that lead down to the river. The sun had almost vanished. Before them rose the bridge, a massive monument of stone beneath which shadows had gathered and formed alcoves of darkness. Once more instinct made them simultaneously turn away from the path along the river where they could have walked in silence, two old, respectable gentlemen out for a stroll in the evening.

Instead, Javert felt the beating of his heart speed up until it was hammering in his chest, until there was nothing but the roar of his blood in his ears at the presence of the man walking by his side, and the things he wanted to do to him. The air was still too warm. There were the soft sounds of the river, and the sounds of the city coming in snatches carried hither by the wind: a piano playing, a shout; laughter; a coach rolling over cobblestone.

They stepped into the shadow beneath the bridge. Suddenly, it was very quiet. All Javert could hear was his own fast breathing – and then he turned, just when Valjean turned as well, and when their mouths met, their kiss was desperate.

Javert clutched at Valjean, grasping a fistful of his coat as he felt himself pressed against the sun-warmed stone of the bridge, and moaned gratefully into Valjean's mouth.

 _This_ , he thought, lost in the fever of Valjean's hands on him. This: the hands at his shoulders, the barely-contained strength in them, the warm stone against his back, the impatience of Valjean's mouth and the sweet awareness that Valjean suffered that same need as he did, as though some strange fate had gifted them with the affliction of deer in spring when they had come so close to the end of their lives already.

This: a tongue against his own, hot and wet, and the sounds of need moaned into his mouth while he in turn clutched at strong arms, bunching up the thin wool of Valjean's summer coat. The heat of the setting sun lay curled in his stomach, and now the embers were fanned, sparks were struck, and he was delirious, drunk on his need for this one man.

A bite was soothed by another kiss, and Javert groaned and slid one hand into the fine, white hair that framed Valjean's face, all control gone from him at last. He had no thought left for the hat his questing fingers dislodged, paid no attention as it fell to the ground; Valjean did not even react to the loss. Instead, Valjean's fingers moved to where the shape of Javert's prick strained against fabric, proud and shameless as it pressed eagerly against his trousers as though they were not out in the open, as though Javert could stand here, at the heart of the city, and bare his swollen, aching prick to the light.

Javert panted against Valjean's mouth. He tightened his fingers in his hair as he drove his hips forward to rub his clothed thigh against the bulge that concealed the wealth of Valjean's own arousal. It gained him a moan and the tightening of fingers around his shoulders, and when he did it again, thinking of how it felt to hold the full weight of it in his hands, Valjean made a soft, overwhelmed sound before Javert found himself lifted and pushed harder against the wall, held only by Valjean's immense strength as they both abandoned all sense and strained against each other. 

Javert could neither breathe nor think; he could only hold on tightly and swallow every desperate moan that escaped Valjean at the painful friction as their clothed desire chafed against the layers of wool. The torment was unbearable, as was the need for more. They were almost completely hidden in the shadows beneath the bridge, and yet, even so...

“Stop,” Valjean gasped at last, allowing Javert to slide down again, and Javert rested his forehead against Valjean as he panted for breath and tried to resist the urge to rub himself against him like an animal.

“Stop, Javert, my trousers – I'll ruin them, you are too much. How will we walk home?”

Valjean's voice was low and rough, and it was the edge of despair in the words that gave Javert the courage to do what he needed.

“Spend in my mouth,” he murmured in return, flushing at the coarseness of his own language and the obscenity of the suggestion. He could not even wait for the answer; desire ran through him once more with the force of a storm, driving away all fear so that he fell to his knees. The cobblestone was warm and hard beneath him as he desperately worked on Valjean's trousers until the proud, thick prick stood free. He moaned with helpless need at the sight of it and then swallowed it down, coaxing forth moans from Valjean instead when his own tongue was silenced by his work.

He did not dare to keep his eyes open; it still made him shiver to know where they stood, that they were not in their bedroom but here in the heart of the city, next to the river, hidden from sight by shadow and stone and yet exposed to anyone who would follow them beneath the bridge.

Valjean's hands were tight in his hair, holding him in place as Valjean's hips stuttered forward – and that did not happen often either, not with careful, considerate Valjean who lived in fear of hurting him with his immense strength. But it was that strength Javert craved, and, having had a taste of it as Valjean pushed him against the wall, he was eager for more now, made wet, encouraging noises every time Valjean slid deep into his mouth until at last Valjean groaned and half bent over him.

“Javert, what if someone sees!” he whispered urgently. Javert swallowed around him, grinding the heel of his hand against where his own flesh throbbed with terrified lust, and then Valjean made a soft, agonized sound, and his release filled Javert's mouth with thick spurts until he had to draw back to swallow it all.

For a moment, Javert remained on his knees, too overcome to stand when his entire body was trembling with the immensity of this terrifying need that could not even be quenched by the very real fear of discovery and the shame that would follow.

 _Think, Javert,_ he told himself helplessly as he palmed the aching length of flesh that pushed hot and insistent against his trousers, _think of how you will face them at the station-house and of how they will know!_ Then Valjean took hold of his shoulders once more and hauled him up, and Javert found himself kissed with such tenderness that he found himself near release from nothing but the taste of Valjean in his mouth and the memory of his strength.

“Don't!” he gasped against his lips, aching for him as every beat of his heart sent a new wave of desire through weakened limbs that almost refused obedience when he pushed Valjean away. “Don't, I can't – I'll stain my trousers, Valjean, don't make me—”

Valjean laughed against his lips with soft, pleased surprise, his hand so warm as he cupped him through his trousers that Javert's hips arched forward and his knees nearly buckled as he cried out. “Valjean, I can't!” he forced out through clenched teeth, half-mad with the need for Valjean to keep touching him, to make him spend in his trousers if that was what it would take, oh God, better to walk back through the streets of Paris like that than to live with this need that tore at him with the claws of a hungry beast--

“Hush. Don't. Turn around,” Valjean murmured, his eyes warm and amused. “Look at you. Look at you, out here... Look at what I do to you.”

There was a flush on Valjean's cheeks, as if Javert's reaction to him both pleased and embarrassed him more than the way Javert had willingly gone to his knees for him. Then another shudder ran through Javert and he arched his back, aching for something – anything! – to touch him, and Valjean took hold of his shoulders and firmly turned him around so that Javert found himself facing the wall.

“Hush, be silent,” Valjean said, even though Javert had not spoken. Then a startled gasp escaped Javert when Valjean's hands deftly opened his trousers. It seemed to him that it echoed ominously beneath the shadows of the bridge's arches – but then Valjean's hand closed confidently around his hard prick and all capacity for thought was gone. Javert leaned forward to brace himself against the wall with one arm, his head bent to watch from half-closed eyes how Valjean's hand slid firmly up and down his prick. Valjean's breath was warm against his ear; Valjean's spend still coated his tongue with thick salt, and he allowed himself to be driven as a lamb was driven by the dog, as a cloud obeyed the force of the wind. All he could do was to be still and watch, to breathe as tension quivered through his body with every firm stroke, to watch how those rough, strong fingers massaged a slickness from him with every stroke upwards, to feel the coil of pressure there in his groin as he panted and watched, this act that had been so unremarkable and stale when he took comfort from his own hand at night, and which in the hand of this master became exquisite, an act of something akin to torture when with every stroke, his muscles tensed and his heart shuddered with fearful anticipation of the coming release.

When it came at least, it was like a storm breaking, and he rode it out in Valjean's arm, sheltered by the warmth of his body and the strong, nimble fingers that kept stroking him while his hips jerked and string after string of his spend splattered against the wall.

He had to close his eyes for a moment, tilting his head to escape the sight and snatch one last heartbeat of respite in Valjean's arms. It was hard to breathe; even as he tried to catch his breath while Valjean's lips brushed affection to his cheek as his spent prick was tucked into his trousers once more, he kept seeing the splash of white semen against worn stone, felt the pulse of shamed arousal in his stomach as inexplicable result of the sight. He staggered backwards when Valjean finally released him; his eyes alighted on the wall once more, and he found himself flushing again with heat. It was filthy. 

Nothing they had done had ever left a trace. Always, they had been private, every touch a cherished mystery shared between them. Even the moments when he had knelt before Valjean, had held him willingly in his mouth, had swallowed Valjean's spend – all of that had already passed and gone, and no one who might pass beneath the bridge today would know what had taken place here.

But this – this would remain, white semen splattered against dark stone as though he had no shame. He thrust a hand into his hair, still out of breath, strangely aroused once more by the sight, and trembling with the inexplicable shame that someone might see and _know_ that it had been him, Javert who had once been so feared, who had shamelessly cavorted here in the darkness.

“Do you know, I used to patrol these quays,” he said with something that might have been despair, had there not been a hint of helpless laughter in it. “I would catch drunk students with a mistress beneath these bridges. Now look what you have done to me.”

“What have I done to you?” Valjean's eyes were warm and gently teasing. 

Javert flushed with warmth. To stand here at the waters of the Seine, here, not far from the very spot where he thought his life would end... But then, it had ended. That old life had ended, thanks to Valjean, who had shown him what it was to live.

“You turned me into a foolish schoolboy drunk on love,” he murmured quietly and sought out Valjean's lips again. “And I will never forgive you for that.” His eyes were warm, and Valjean laughed against his lips. 

“In that case,” Valjean said and there, beneath the bridge, drew him closer to brush their lips together once more, “I will gladly seek to make up for that until the end of my life.”

“A kiss every day, and I might forgive you,” Javert said even as he flushed at the nonsense they spoke. The sun had set by now, and the moon was rising. It was still very quiet; they could hear nothing but the sounds of the river lapping at the quay. Very soon, someone would come by to light the street-lamps; with one last flush of embarrassed excitement, Javert turned away from where he knew his spend was still staining the wall, and took Valjean's hand in the dark.


End file.
